


sung me moonstruck

by cosmoscorpse



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, poorly written waltzes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9390323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/pseuds/cosmoscorpse
Summary: “My Lord Protector,” she says, her voice high and clear in the emptied ballroom, “Will you dance with me?”





	

“My Lord Protector,” she says, her voice high and clear in the emptied ballroom, “Will you dance with me?”

She is standing in the center of the room, and she looks pristine, untouchable. Her eyes pale and glittering and pinning him to the wall. His heart aches with it. She tilts her head at him, holds out her hand. He clears his throat, moving from his position at the wall. The audiograph machine is still looping the last waltz of the evening. He swallows.

“It is late, your Grace,” he says, “We should get you to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed. Please,” she says, “Corvo, dance with me.”

He has never been able to deny her. She holds her arms out, her eyes glittering with expectancy, and he steps into her space with his eyes ducked down and away. His breath sticking up in his chest as he settles his hand gently, carefully, at the small of her back. She rests her hand on his elbow, and threads the fingers of her other hand into his own.

“Just one dance,” he says, her nodding already, and then they step into the motion.

The movements are not unfamiliar to him – he had had to learn them when he came to Gristol, but that is so long ago now that it might have been another lifetime. He fits as well as he is able to amidst the decorum and procedure of Dunwall’s royal court – he knows the steps, even if they are not entirely natural to him.

Gristol’s waltz is too slow. He is – he is far too close to her, for far too long. He can feel the heat of her bleeding through her suit jacket and it scalds him. Twists his heart and stops his breath in his lungs. Still, they sweep through the steps, and he – he feels like he is losing his mind. She smells like brandy and like jasmine and a little like the little blue flowers in the bouquet he had given her early yesterday – for her birthday, and he had been unsure if should have given her something grander; or nothing at all, if he was overstepping his position by presuming to give her _flowers,_ of all things.

_Like a moonstruck fool_ , he thinks, not without some bitterness, _like an addled, moonstruck fool._

Still, he swears that she smells like the flowers he gave her, and Corvo is _sure_ he is losing his mind. He cannot breathe past the vise on his throat and –

Her hand tightens briefly in his. A falter in her step.

“Your Grace?” he asks, slowing their waltz to a halt and attempting to step back from her. His heart is in his throat – he is sure that he’s done something wrong – and void forbid that he’s somehow hurt her. He couldn’t bear it. He – he would sooner _die_ ; but when he tries to move back and give her space her hand grips his shoulder tighter, holding him in place.

She is making soft hiccupping noises, her face turned down. Her shoulders are trembling.

_She is crying_ , he realizes distantly, and he cannot breathe.

“Your Grace?” he asks, untangling his hand from hers and letting it hover, not quite touching, over her shoulder, “Are you alright? What – is there something the matter – did I –?”

She sniffles loudly – ungracefully, and shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s silly,” she says, her voice wet thick, “Did you know that Lady Briene Orlee got _engaged_ last month? That’s why – why she was flaunting around that garish, that absolutely awful diamond tonight.”

She sniffs again, an awful gasping sound that cuts Corvo to his core. She shakes her head again, flinging her hand in a wild gesticulation. She laughs, “And it’s _so_ silly but – I was just thinking – it’s going to be beautiful. When _you_ get _married_ , someday. You’re going to make _someone_ very lucky,” she makes a little choked noise, again, and covers her mouth with her hand like she’s trying to keep the sound in.

She won’t meet his eyes. The waltz peters out on the audiograph machine and the room slips into silence, filled only by the sound of her gasping little sobs.

And then there is Corvo, standing stricken, silent, like a _fool_.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jessamine says, covering the whole of her face with her hands, her voice muffled because of it, “Oh, _Outsider’s blood_ – this is foolish, I’m –”

And Corvo’s traitor heart is hammering in his chest – and it says _fool, fool, fool, fool!_ – and he knows this! But she is crying, still, and he feels like he could die and he says, “Your Grace,” and he says, “Jessamine, I could never marry.”

And he can’t quite say the last bit, which would be “ _anyone but you”_ , and which is the truth, true as anything ever was; and he is a doomed, damned _fool_ for it.

She has gone quiet, and still, and slowly her hands lower and she peeks out from behind them: her eyes are wide and shining and very, very blue, her cheeks splotchy from crying and she looks achingly _human_.

She swallows, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Oh,” she breathes, swaying a little on her feet.

He reaches out to steady her – and she reaches up to grab his collar and pull him down and fit her mouth against his.

And –

She is soft and warm and insistent – and she is his _Empress_ and he had not even allowed himself to _dream_ about this, hadn’t even dared _hope_ – and he cannot breathe and she is still kissing him, and she tastes like brandy and honey and –

Oh, _Void_

He tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her like a drowning man gasping for air. He had been – he is _trying_ to be gentle, to be soft and slow but he wants he wants he w _ants_ to press her up against a wall and pull music from her throat – Void, the _Empress_ – he doesn’t want to _hurt_ her.

He kisses her deep and feels more than he hears the whine building up in her chest, in his own, some dam breaking. She bites down on his lip, a slow, w _onderful_ scrape of teeth – and his chest is fit to burst –and he pulls away, his breath gone ragged.

Jessamine blinks up at him, her cheeks gone ruddy and her pupils blown wide and her hair falling out of its careful twist and she smiles, wide and bright and giddy, and it is worth it. It is worth it.

“Corvo, Corvo, Corvo,” she breathes, letting her head fall forward to rest against his chest, “My Lord Protector.”

He swallows, wraps an arm around her shoulders and glances around the still-empty room: silent, except for their two voices. He lets himself press a kiss to the crown of her head, smoothing down her hair, his heart aching with tenderness for her. “My Empress,” he says thickly. His Empress, star of his sky; she laughs, a dizzy hiccup of sound. He presses another quick kiss to her temple. “It’s late. Let me escort you to your rooms.”

“Alright,” she murmurs, reaching blindly up for his hand, “And you’ll be there, in the morning?”

He closes his eyes. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from [my tumblr](http://seaborgois.tumblr.com). 
> 
> thank you for reading!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Held Fast by Starlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501617) by [Echinoderma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echinoderma/pseuds/Echinoderma)




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